


The House on the Hill

by Niitza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe in Miracles?, Future Fic, M/M, Original Character(s), POV Outsider, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:06:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1667435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a small hill on the outskirts of town, there is a house. <i>A post 9x23 future fic.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The House on the Hill

On a small hill on the outskirts of town, there is a house.

You remember it from your childhood, an old building surrounded by trees, a decaying frame barely hiding its utter emptiness. You shied away from it—everyone shied away from it. Oh, it wasn't haunted, wasn't said to be, there is no place for such tales around here. But it was imbued with the quiet loneliness of old age, with the impression of time irrevocably passing by, left by its last owner. It quietened even the most turbulent children, snuffed out the brightest curiosity.

When you come back after all these years, it's the only thing that has changed.

It's not empty anymore, although no one seems to remember when exactly its new inhabitants arrived. And no one seems to know when everyone in town started going there, how it became the place they went to when they needed little things—honey or wax candles, chopped wood or small repairs. The only thing they can tell you is that that's how things are now.

And since you know how small towns work, how to be brought back into the fold, the next time the radio on the counter starts sputtering again, that's where you go.

 

There are two people living in the house.

One is a man, quiet, with the first hints of grey creeping up his temples. His eyes are blue but sad like a rainy day, his smile softer than the clouds.

The other is a shadow.

 

The man's name, you soon learn, is Cas. He takes your radio, inspects it, tells you it should be ready in about two days. Then he offers you tea, with a spoon of honey.

He is kind. As you drink he expresses his condolences for the loss of your father, although you haven't told him your name. He asks after your mother. He murmurs his admiration for your devotion, your decision to come back and help her with the store.

You refuse to take the compliment. Your life away, the life of dreams and studies and great cities, wasn't working out for you. You wouldn't have left it otherwise.

You're not that selfless.

 

The shadow is also a man. This you learn from one of your customers, a former classmate, when she asks about the absent radio and you tell her where you brought it.

Cas says his name is Dean, Laura tells you, although the man himself never introduced himself. He rarely talks, rarely comes close enough to. He spends most of his time at a distance, in the garden, in the back room. In the shadows.

It's not a bad thing. People don't hate him, they don't know him enough for that, he hasn't done anything wrong. He's the one doing most of the repairs, actually, careful and skilled like few are. But no one feels at ease when he's near. Everyone is wary.

There is a darkness in his eyes, Laura says. Something weighing down on his shoulders, something quietly frightening.

He is aware of it. He stays away.

They show their gratefulness by leaving him be.

 

Cas refuses your money when you come to fetch you radio—which is now in perfect working order. The only thing he will accept, according to your mother, is something from the store. Vegetables, mostly, offered as a gift, not as payment.

They don't have much money. And even though they have bees, they don't have a garden.

When you ask Cas why, he replies that the earth is no good around the house. Yet you remember, in faded snapshots of springs and summers long gone, the luxurious leaves, the flowers and fruit that covered the stems, that bent the branches under their weight. You remember times when people overcame their unease, lured in by the prospect of a rich harvest. You remember the pies your mother used to make with the apples of these trees.

But ever since they've arrived, Cas tells you, there hasn't been a single one.

 

You fit back seamlessly into the life of the town, almost like you never left. Like they do. Time goes by. You learn more about them, little by little.

About Cas, about his care for his bees, for people, for everything.

About Sam, whose visits are an event you weren't aware of until the first time he arrives. He is Dean's brother, and his opposite in every way. Children rush at him to tug at his jeans and play with his dog, men and women stop him on his way to ask about his degree, to invite him to dinner. He is the prodigal son finally coming home, the one they trust and welcome. Sam smiles and replies to their questions, laughs and regretfully declines their invitations. He spends most of his time at the house on the hill, with Cas, with Dean. You barely see him once or twice, when he comes to the store. He is Dean's brother, but he shares Cas' sadness, buried deep in his eyes and between the crinkles of his smile.

You learn about Dean too. Dean, who rarely leaves the house, but will come to your shop when Cas can't. He will step through the door unexpectedly, accept your help to choose his tomatoes and pay for them and rice with crumpled dollar bills. He won't say much, he will avoid your gaze, but he will be careful, polite, the words unfamiliar and clumsy in his mouth. He will leave as fast as he's arrived, only briefly pausing on the doorway to let a group of children pass—to watch them as they cross the street, as if making sure they're safe. And for a second you'll almost see a smile on his lips, an ephemeral reflection of the man he might have been once, before.

Before what?

 

It's months before you ask—month after Cas came in after he'd recovered and smiled at you more  warmly than before—, before you dare saying anything out loud. You are sharing another cup of tea, sitting on the porch while Dean chops wood in a corner of the yard, impervious to the late autumn chill on the bare skin of his chest. From where you're sitting, dozens of feet away, you still see numerous scars, one like a brand on his arm, and a faded tattoo above his heart.

You wonder how it is, for Cas, to live with him, alone on the hill.

"He did terrible things," you find yourself saying. "Didn't he?"

"Yes," Cas admits simply, honest and calm. You know he won't tell you anything more.

You watch Dean chopping wood, never pausing, never breathing, striking down with his axe like he's punishing someone, like he's punishing himself.

"What changed?" you ask.

Cas smiles at you. "I asked him to stop." He looks at Dean, takes a sip of his tea. "And he did."

"Just like that?"

Cas lowers his eyes. His smile has turned sad. "He's still fighting it, every day, every hour. But yes. Just like that."

 

When you leave, you turn back one last time to wave at Cas from the end of the path. As he returns the gesture Dean comes up behind him, hands bloodied by torn blisters, small cuts and splinters, a shadow amongst shadows, for a second the exact shape of nightmares. But he simply refills Cas' cup, and walks around his old chair to sit down at his feet. He leans his head against Cas' thigh, and as Cas threads a hand through his hair he closes his eyes, quiet, trusting, and for a brief, precious instant, at peace.

 


End file.
